


Like a Postcard

by madame_faust



Series: The Jeromeverse [3]
Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: Ethnological Exhibition, Exploitation, F/M, Historical References, Mutual Pining, Period-Typical Racism, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-26
Updated: 2020-03-03
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:08:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21573499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madame_faust/pseuds/madame_faust
Summary: Christine and Raoul enjoy a warm springtime afternoon and she wonders whether her affection for her childhood friend might not be something more.
Relationships: Raoul de Chagny/Christine Daaé
Series: The Jeromeverse [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1735048
Comments: 24
Kudos: 33





	1. Christine

**Author's Note:**

> **Warning for period-typical racism and exploitation of indigenous peoples.** For about 30 years there was a rotating "anthropological" display of human beings from around the world at the Jardin d'Acclimatation, mostly indigenous people from Africa. Christine's attitude of horror at the prospect of people being put on display is sadly ahistorical - these human zoos were incredibly popular in the late 19th century in Europe and the United States. That area of the Bois du Boulogne is currently an amusement park.

It was Sunday, the Opera was shuttered and even her shadowed and mysterious Maestro instructed her to rest her voice and take in the warm air and sunshine. It seemed the perfect time to renew an old acquaintance and indulge in some light exercise. 

Raoul came to collect her at ten o'clock sharp - a perfectly respectable time of day to go out with a young fellow she had regarded with all the open, close affection one might have afforded a brother, should one be blessed enough to have one. Mamma received him with all cordiality, recalling fondly the polite, sweet-natured little boy she met nearly ten years ago, in short pants and a sailor suit. 

"Raoul's come up in the world since then, Mamma," Christine informed her teasingly. "He's a naval officer!"

The next quarter of an hour was spent in a (carefully edited, Christine was sure) retelling of some of his adventures. How he'd seen a pod of whales breaching the water once, giant leviathans they were, as long as the ship itself. 

"Were you frightened?" Christine interjected, bright-eyed and eager as the tow-headed moppet she had been, who dragged Raoul up and down the beach, combing for crabs and spying for korrigans in the mist. "I heard once of a whaler which was rammed to bits by a whale. The crew was stranded for months, hardly any survived, and those that _did_ were forced to - "

"Christine," Mamma tsked with a shudder. "Don't be morbid."

Christine promptly did as she was told, shutting her mouth and smoothing the front of her dress, uselessly, for it was done up in the handkerchief style. It looked very smart, but gave her very little to do with her hands, an obvious design flaw. 

"Not to worry," Raoul replied gamely, favoring Christine with a sweet smile. "I'm sure they knew we were friends, not foe - I only wanted to admire them, not chase them down to fuel the lamps."

The conversation slowed considerably after that, Raoul changed the subject around to topics of general interest: the weather, the traffic, and an inquiry into Mamma's health. 

The latter provided a neverending litany of complaints: a weakness in her back, a fogginess in her head, a stiffness in her joints. All of which Raoul listened to with great sympathy and interest while Christine soaked up the meagre praise of being declared a patient and adequate nursemaid. 

"It's nothing, Mamma," she would say at regular intervals. She hardly saw that discussing the minutiae of an older lady's physical ailments was less morbid than a tale of a decades-old shipwreck, but she held her tongue out of respect of Mamma's preferences. 

However, whatever her complaints, Mamma felt well enough to act as chaperone for them. The day was truly beautiful, the sky blue as a robin's egg and speckled only with the occasional cloud, white and fluffy, truly picturesque, like a postcard.

The Bois du Boulogne was bustling with families milling about, small groups of friends armed with parasols and picnic hampers, and the usual profusion of small dogs on leads, tails wagging as they hoped eager for a treat from the baskets. Birdsong, conversation, the wheeze of concertinas from roadside buskers gave the whole of the park an air of vitality and life to the place that Christine found herself skipping ahead of her companions toward the place where the commotion was the thickest.

"Pardon me, madame, what's everyone fussing over?" she asked a young woman in a white straw hat bedecked with ostrich plumes, at the fringes of a large crowd surrounding an advertisement. 

"There's an exhibition today," the lady explained, handing Christine a small printed pamphlet. "At the Jardin d'Acclimation - Zulus!"

The pamphlet showed a crude printed woodcut of a gathering of men holding spears and women, holding (and wearing) nothing. Christine's brow furrowed and she asked, "Is it an archaeological exhibition?"

"Oh, no," the young woman exclaimed, eyes shining. "They've got _real_ Africans on display! In cages, though, no need to worry."

"Oh," Christine said, her stomach turning over with an uncomfortable sensation which completely replaced the excitement she was feeling. With a wan smile she returned the pamphlet to its owner and thought about the admonishment from her Maestro to enjoy the springtime.

 _'And you?'_ she had asked curiously. Erik seemed a man who lived entirely indoors, it was strange that he should want her to take the air so ardently. _'Will you be enjoying the sun? I heard the Bois is lovely, especially the English garden.'_

He paused a long while before he replied, _'I have had too much of sun and out of doors in my life. I prefer to stay in.'_

 _'Too much sun?'_ she asked incredulously. How was such a thing possible? Given the sallow complexion of his neck and ears, his preference for gloves whenever possible, she thought it more likely that he'd not been much outside in his lifetime. 

In retrospect, she possibly pressed him too much. Her curiosity had a tendency to get her into trouble. But Erik explained that, as a much younger man, he'd been inclined to travel. As a performer. At fairgrounds. 

Christine thought that wonderful, a bond of commonality between them for she and her father often sang for their supper in the years before they became acquainted with the Professor and his good wife. She had been so young at the time, that period of her young was a wonderful adventure in her memory. Such a change from the dreary little house, so cold and silent, as it was in the months following her poor mother's passing. She eagerly asked Erik to tell her a story of his time traveling - perhaps they'd met long ago! Wouldn't that be funny?

He did not seem to think so. Erik smiled, grimly and said that he'd likely been more regularly employed when she was a girl on the highways.

 _'Besides,'_ he added, very softly. _'I am certain that your father would not have let his darling girl wander too freely about the wagons that housed the...'_

He trailed off and, foolishly, she realized, she'd pressed him for more. 

_'The human oddities,'_ he finished. The mask stared impassively at her, but his strange yellow eyes were dim with discomfort. 

Christine realized her mistake in asking too many questions. She hastily changed the subject and, after she left Erik's company, filled her head with thoughts of gardens and Raoul. The excitement over men and women in cages brought it all back, uncomfortably near. 

She beat a hasty retreat back to Mamma and Raoul. The old lady was gripping his arm and she raised her stick at Christine in mock-admonishment.

"You silly girl, I thought we'd lost you! Did you want money for the zoo?" Madame Valerius asked, loosing her hold upon Raoul to fish about in her reticule. "I remember when Professor Valerius took me, years ago - we saw a kangaroo! All the way from Australia, it came. Remarkable!"

"No, no, Mamma, thank you," Christine went to her side and bade her put her money away. "I think we'll walk through the gardens - if that's alright?"

Raoul cast a benevolent smile down at her, making her face heat and color. She was suddenly conscious of how she'd been acting. Despite her fashionable dress, she'd scarpered off into the crowd at the first chance she got and then her guardian offered her money for the zoo, like a child! Whereas Raoul had come a great way from being the little boy in the sailor suit she'd known so long ago, Christine feared she herself was precisely the same in essentials. 

"Whatever you wish," he said gently. Indulgently. Like a brother would to a younger sister. 

She'd called him such, of course. When the girls in the chorus (not to mention a certain part-time voice teacher, part-time ghost) began twitting her about the Vicomte's interest in pursuing her company, Christine declared that it was all very proper. They had known one another as children, she explained. They spent summers together in Brittany, by happenstance. He was very dear to her. Like a brother.

At the time, it was both a defense and a compliment. Now she wasn't so sure she liked that familial description of their friendship.

As they walked the paths to the gardens, slowly, both to appreciate the loveliness of the day and in consideration of Mamma's joints, Christine did not miss the admiring glances thrown their way. All for Raoul, she was sure. Where once he'd been knock-kneed and skinny as a broomstick, he'd blossomed into handsome manhood. He was a head taller than her, at least, broad through the shoulders, and life at sea had made him strapping and strong. His small, well-maintained mustache was dashing and removed any trace of boyishness from his face. 

She thought of herself by comparison and could not help frowning slightly. Christine had not risen in height very much from those days by the sea. Her face still had the dimpled roundness of a china doll, she often had to compensate for the deficiencies of a small mouth (and incongruously large front teeth) in her voice lessons, and a stubborn insistence that she could get along _just_ fine without her spectacles so long as she didn't have to read anything led to an unflattering squint. 

No, there was not a trace of graceful length about her, nor swan-necked elegance such as that with which La Sorelli was blessed. It was an open secret around the Opera House that she was the Comte's favorite. For the first time Christine found herself wondering whether or not Raoul would prefer to keep company with someone a little more like _that_.

Straightening up, she gripped her parasol rather more firmly than necessary and silently admonished herself to buck up. He was here with her, was he not? Anyway, the woman currently on his arm was a wizened old lady, so Christine supposed she looked rather the better by immediate comparison. 

"It's so warm," Raoul observed, daubing at his neck with a handkerchief. "What do you say I hire a boat for an hour or two?"

Mamma demurred, citing her knees as an impediment to clambering in and out of a boat, but said that the two of them ought to hire one. "You children enjoy yourselves. I'm perfectly content to sit for a while and enjoy the sunshine."

"What do you say?" Raoul asked, turning to Christine. His eyes were sparkling. "Will you be my captain?"

"You remember _that,_ too?" she asked, laughing a little in chagrin. It was true, she'd not been the most...egalitarian child. When they played pirates, she was the captain. When they invented a dragon to slay, she was the King (yes, the _king_ ) and Raoul her most loyal knight and faithful subject. It was memories like this that made her think, if La Carlotta had been another little child on holiday in Brittany, they might have gotten along swimmingly...or else divided the beach in two and declared war on one another. "Yes, I'd love to be your captain."

He saluted her and guided Mamma to a bench. Inwardly, Christine berated herself for the exchange - cheerful, _funny_ , even, but childish. She was a young lady - nearly twenty years of age! - it was past time she started acting like one.

Oh, certainly, she'd cultivated a solemn disposition after she buried dear Papa. Had Raoul come ashore only two years before he would have found a girl very different from the one in the white and yellow cotton dress who went to the park with him. In those days, she wore black and spoke hardly a word, though grief ought never be mistaken for maturity. She'd wept more than she'd sung. Upon the completion of her Conservatory education, she wondered whether or not she ought to go on singing; she found no joy in it.

That all changed one day when a beautiful voice called to her in a darkened theatre and requested that she drop her shoulders and open her mouth wider. Another girl might have run or screamed, but Christine - a child long acquainted with stories of fairies and nokken - merely did what it asked. They became fast friends, after that, and the strange, masked man who made the Opera his home. He brought a bit of cheer back into her life and life back into her voice. She had to wonder: if she'd never met Erik, would Raoul have even noticed her upon his return to Paris?

He noticed her now, even if it was not the way she would have preferred. He was nothing but gentlemanly decorum as he held his hands to help her into the boat. He watched to make sure she was comfortably installed on one end of the boat as he took up the oars and rowed them out onto the water. Mamma gaily waved at them from her place upon the bench; then she settled back and closed her eyes, apparently preferring to enjoy the day by napping through it. 

The sun was hot on her face, but the air was cool as Raoul rowed them with confident, sure strokes. Christine hoped he would attribute the redness in her face to too much sun, rather than a self-conscious admiration of how strong his arms looks and how very broad his shoulders were as the muscles strained against his jacket. She opened her parasol to shield her face from the sun and cast a shadow over her blushing. 

"Are you happy to be home?" Christine asked him, glancing up through her eyelashes. Unable to be still, she fidgeted with her parasol, turning it round and round in her gloved hands.

"Yes, very," Raoul answered promptly. He cleared his throat and squinted at her. "Actually...may I be frank?"

"Please," Christine encouraged him. She sat up a bit straighter. She stopped twirling her parasol. Immediately she assumed the worst: _he's tired of you, tired of having you nipping along at his heels like a puppy, he'd rather be spending time with fashionable young ladies, not little girls from his past..._

"I am happy to be here," he said softly. "With you. And Madame Valerius. With you I can be...myself. My family's made...a bit of a fuss over me, if I'm honest. And you know I've never liked a fuss."

"Oh," Christine breathed softly, unspeakably relieved. So unspeakably relieved that she forgot how to string a sentence together. "No, you've never been...fussy."

"I'm very appreciative," he added. A corner of his mouth twitched and he said, "I'm just not very good with strangers. Small talk, it's difficult for me. My sisters claim I need to be re-civilized."

Not entirely mistress of herself, Christine made a face that must have conveyed her opinions on that notion all too well for Raoul laughed. It was a lovely, rich sound, and she could not lament being the cause of it.

"You disagree?" he asked.

Christine nodded resolutely. "I think you do very well - you listened to Mamma go on for an age about her hip, for instance, and if that is not the _height_ of civility, I don't know what is."

God, had she ever seen anyone smile properly before she met Raoul? His was a smile for the ages, bright and beaming. It warmed her up from top to toe to see, better than any fire or the rays of the sun. A proper inspiration for an artist. A painter, she thought. No tintype could capture its brilliance.

"Thank you for accepting my invitation to spend the day," he said warmly. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

There was a clatter as the oar seemed to slip and veer, causing Raoul to pitch sideways slightly. Christine reached out and seized hold of his arm - feeling the warm skin and sinew beneath her hands through his sleeves, through her gloves. The parasol was useless; her face had to be the color of a tomato. Or an aubergine. The movement placed their faces quite close together. Their eyes were locked. Had she ever seen eyes so lovely? So deep and brown and warm? No, she thought decisively. She never had.

"I..." she cleared her throat, at a loss for words. Her tongue slipped between her lips to wet them. Her mouth was suddenly very dry and she wished they'd brought a hamper. A glass of wine seemed just the thing to calm her nerves. "I'm sure I'm not so important as that."

There. A humble, demure response to a compliment that sent her reeling. Very ladylike. She removed her hand from Raoul's arm and reset herself at the end of the boat. He righted his oar and on they sailed, the boat cutting a path through the glistening water of the lake.


	2. Raoul

Raoul was sweating like racehorse and could feel the heat rising in his cheeks, making him resemble an overripe tomato rather than a human being. Dear Christine was all humilty and sweetness as she listened to him prattle on, but if he wasn't rowing and didn't fear overbalancing the boat he could have kicked himself for being so frank. Here it was, a beautiful spring day in a lovely setting and no sooner had he got her alone than he unburdened his heart to her, like a tinker's cart overturning in the street, spilling its contents into the gutter.

Well. Not _all_ the contents of his heart. There were one or two little valuables he'd not managed to drop in the muck; he kept them close and silent for he was sure not even good, patient Christine could quite bear it if he started blathering clumsy oaths of affection on top of his complaining. 

He'd only just caught himself. It was a mighty effort to hold himself back, but he did, for propriety's sake and to spare himself hearty embarrassment. It was obvious he'd made her uncomfortable. For shame; he only wanted her to enjoy herself in his company, as he did in hers.

All was as he'd said; as much as he loved his sisters and his brother, sometimes he wanted nothing more than to be well-away from him. Their affection toward him was earnest, but so was their criticism. Lovingly meant criticism, coming from a wellspring of the best of intentions, but it was trying nevertheless. 

No sooner had he come ashore it seemed than he had been pressed into service for any number of social engagements: salons, balls, outings to fashionable restaurants, less fashionable music halls, and the theatre.

In this latter arena only had he found some solace and that was only because of Christine. When he'd seen her singing at the Opéra's gala he'd known her at once. It would be inaccurate to say she had hardly changed, but as her voice had matured over time from the delicate sweetness of a songbird to the incredible heights of the angels, so too had his one-time playmate and make-believe sweetheart (and ship's captain, and king), so too had she blossomed into a beauty that took his breath away.

Now, for instance, resplendent in a light-colored frock which made her golden curls look more lustrous, rosy-cheeked and achingly pretty under the brim of her hat and the shade of her parasol. Her eyes, as blue as the water around them reflecting the brilliant color of the sky, sparkled always with lively mischief and her rosebud of a mouth seemed to call for him to put his lips to hers. 

The heat rose once again in his face and he fancied he now resembled more aubergine than tomato. Better to keep quiet. One of the (many) points of concern his siblings expressed when they took him out with them was his address. Too plain-spoken, said Marie-Félicité, it was unbecoming of a gentleman and bordered upon uncouth. Too quiet, tsked Marie-Grace, a young lady liked to be drawn out, rather than speak to fill awkward silences. Too emotional, worried Philippe. Really, he was a man now, and men were meant to be strong and stiff-lipped. Rather like Philippe himself. 

Too quiet seemed the least of these evils so Raoul concentrated on manning the oars and let them silently glide in the still waters. Christine removed one of her gloves and let the tips of her fingers skim the water, leaving tiny ripples flowing away from the boat. 

He was sure she had many admirers, he reflected, failing to tamp down a sudden rush of jealousy. She was so genuine, so kind, in addition to being such a beauty and such a talent. When he - like an emotional, uncouth young thing - had rushed to her dressing room door following the performance he'd heard a voice within, praising her to the heavens for her triumph upon the stage.

It was a deep, rich voice. Utterly masculine, well-spoken, and charming. Raoul could not bear to listen for more than a minute and dragged himself away like a pup with its tail between its legs. Christine explained, later, when they were properly reacquainted, that it had only been her voice teacher. A shy, retiring man, she said. By the name of Erik. 

Well could Raoul picture this man in his mind's eye: Tall, broad-shouldered and dashing. He would have a strong jaw, a stormy brow, and dark hair, with passionate eyes. Rather like Heathcliff in evening clothes. Supremely self-assured and damnably handsome; the sort of man who would cause heads to turn and feminine hearts to flutter when he walked down the street. Charming in a way that was impossible to resist. Raoul rather hated him, though they had never met.

Not that he was in a position to be jealous. He had no claim upon her, after all. He was not her husband, fiancé, or even her lover. Only, 'Raoul,' as she spoke of him to others, her dainty little hand lightly wrapping around his elbow as she smiled up at him with affection. Her childhood friend. As close to a brother as she could have in this life. 

Sometimes he felt wicked. Madame Valerius tolerated his company and permitted him the freedom to be alone with her darling girl, like this, out on the water where her failing sight could hardly spy them because of her conviction in his fraternal affection. Christine too smiled at him, took his arm, kissed his cheek all without guile, believing too that all his love for her was in the Platonic ideal. 

What would she say if she knew? What good would it do either of them? Marie-Félicité hemmed and hummed that it was all very well to keep up with old friends, but that he really ought to think of the future. Marie-Grace clucked over his shyness and gently reminded him that he was a young _man_ and ought to have overcome his natural reticence. And Philippe private confided that the rumors around the Opéra concerning little Daaé were that she was a lonesome, strange, prudish sort of girl and that if he was looking for _company_ , Philippe had other friends he might introduce him to. 

But he did not care to be drawn out, to make new acquaintances, or think of the future. Now, with the bob of the boat beneath him, the sun shining above him, and Christine sitting across from him was all the society and company he cared for. When he was away from her he thought of her incessantly and when he was with her, it took everything that was in him not to overburden her with every feeling within him. 

_There are other women in the world, Raoul_ , Philippe reminded him when he inquired as to his Sunday plans. 

_Were_ there, though? Surely none so pretty, nor so spirited, with such a beautiful voice and such a tender heart. On that point he was resolved although he was yet young and, according to his siblings (especially his brother) painfully unworldly. 

"Do you want to rest?" Christine asked, looking up at him with concern. "Only you look a little..."

"Purple?" he asked, letting the oars rest while the boat gently sailed on a few more feet before slowing its pace through the water considerably. 

She laughed, a light, merry sound that he wanted to bottle and keep close to cheer him when he was melancholy. "I was going to say tired. I know this is a little more leisurely than the excitement you're used to, but we're not in a race...yet."

Her gaze cut sideways to another group upon the water. This time there were two men in the boat, each with an oar in hand, and two ladies, clad in summer-white, glowing in the sunshine. 

"Hmm," Raoul frowned, tapping his chin thoughtfully. "We're outnumbered. I don't like our odds."

"Nonsense," Christine shook her head, tilting her parasol to shade her eyes so that she might look at them - though, remembering how close-sighted she was as a child, he doubted very much she could see them. When she squinted her nose scrunched up adorably and he couldn't help grinning, probably looking like an absolute loon. "Look at them both. Spindly and out of training. You could row circles around them, I'm sure." 

"Aye, aye, captain," Raoul declared, taking up the oars again. He didn't go in for speed, but lazily drew them around to circle their unsuspecting enemies. "Are you armed? Shall we board them?"

He was trying to prompt her to laugh again and he succeeded. 

"Only with a hatpin," she remarked ruefully. 

"A terror of the boulevards, if the papers are to be believed," Raoul said seriously. "Do you think there's treasure aboard?"

"On such a craft as that?" Christine sniffed dismissively. "No, not a doubloon amongst them. They're a sad, sorry lot."

"Hardly worth our time, I should think," Raoul replied.

They were coming up alongside them. They would pass them soon, a bit too close for the proximity not to look suspicious. Glancing them over, Raoul did not recognize them. One of the young ladies nudged her companion and gestured toward their boat with an expression of confusion on her face. Panicking slightly, Raoul let go of one of the oars on instinct to tip his hat to the lady, then nearly overbalanced their boat in the process. Christine gave a little yelp of alarm as he tried to right them and the 'sorry lot' stared with pity and alarm as their craft tipped and weaved drunkenly through the water. 

Christine was gripping both sides of the prow. She dropped the parasol to keep herself from toppling into the drink and it was their first passenger overboard.

"Oh, no!" she called out as it fell, open and pinwheeling over the surface of the water. It did not sink at all at once, but flew about a bit resembling a swan caught in a tornado. 

"Shall I fetch it?" Raoul asked, though it was a hopeless endeavor; already it was half-sunk in the water. 

Despite her dismay, Christine smiled brilliantly at him. "I know you're up for the task, but don't, you'll ruin your suit."

"I have others," he reminded her, but just then her parasol sank for good under the water. 

"And I can buy other parasols," she replied. "It's just as well; it wouldn't do for a...gentleman of your dignity to go home soaked to the skin after all."

"I'd do it," he said, with far more gravity than the situation warranted. "If you asked me to."

For a long while it seemed, they only looked at one another. Christine's lips had parted as if she would speak, but no sound came out. Far from squinting, her eyes were large and peered up at him with an unfathomable expression - Raoul couldn't swear to it, but he thought she seemed sad. 

Visibly she swallowed and looked away, gazing out at the water at the place where her parasol sank. "You always were a noble fellow. My brave knight. But no, it wouldn't be right to ask you to embarrass yourself for me."

"I'd...scorn the censure of anyone," he said, babbling now, he could feel it. Perspiration popped out on his brow, down his neck, soaking his stiff collar. "For you. With you. Forgive me, I'm...too free. With my words. I didn't mean to make you feel ill at ease."

"I don't!" she exclaimed, sitting upright as suddenly as if she'd been called to attention. "You're not! It's...only you say such kind things. I hardly know what to say. I'm...a little flummoxed, just now, but that's my own trouble and nothing to do with you."

A thousand butterflies seemed let loose suddenly in the pit of Raoul's stomach. For a second, in her tone and her glance, he thought he'd seen...but _had_ he? Nerves. And affection. All intwined together. Was that a look of love? Or just his overactive imagination starting at shadows and imagining something that was not truly there, but what he wished for most ardently.

"Then...let's not talk," he said, guiding their craft to a shady spot by the water's edge. "I know Sunday is a day of rest, but...I'd like it so much if you would sing, just a little. Quietly, if it's no strain to you."

Another brilliant smile - no laughter this time, but the sun was still high. The day was young. They had time.

"Singing I can do more easily than anything," Christine replied at once. "What would you like to hear?"

"Anything," he said simply. "I'd be happy to hear you sing anything. I love you - your voice. I love your voice so _very_ much."

She sang softly and simply, with none of the power and drama that imbued her voice at the Gala, but it was no less splendid for all that. It was like she was singing only for him. As though her voice was a gift or a treasure, meant for him alone. As though he were the lover that the song spoke of and she the girl wringing her heart out over him.

Raoul closed his eyes and let the world fall away. There was no more questioning this or that, his manner, words, or comportment. No more trying to read Christine's feelings in her eyes. There was only himself, Christine, and the music. And it was enough, until the song ended.

Then the world returned. A most unwelcome intrusion.

"We should go back," Christine said quietly - a trifle unhappily, or was it his imagination again? "We've left Mamma alone a while."

Raoul returned them to shore; Madame Valerius seemed none the worse for wear, having nodded off on a park bench. Raoul stood upon the small dock first and held open his hand to help Christine out of the boat.

She had not yet replaced her gloves. It was her warm, bare little hand that he held in his. She was so close, looking up at him, her eyes so blue. Her eyes flickered down to their joined hands and he sensed she was waiting for something. But what?

 _You always were a noble fellow,_ she'd said, just a few minutes ago. _My brave knight._

He'd pledged fealty a long while back. Perhaps a courtly gesture was in order.

Raoul lowered his head and pressed a kiss to the back of her bare hand. Christine's fingers tightened around his and when he raised his eyes to hers, she was smiling, so beautifully, so... _lovingly_.

"Christine," he said helplessly, words failing him now, when it seemed so critical that he speak. "I..."

But she was kind to him and took pity on him. Now when she took his arm, she rested her head against his shoulder.

"Me too," she sighed, closing her eyes and pressing close. 

Strolling arm-in-arm, slowly, toward the sleeping guardian, sun shining overhead, a beautiful woman at his side - hang Philippe, the only woman in the world, as far as Raoul was concerned - he thought that it was quite a perfect day. The kind of picture one might wish to capture forever. Like a postcard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was seriously considering overturning the boat and dumping them both in the drink, but I decided against it ;-)


End file.
